Creative Experiments and More

Friday sits like a coin in my pocket
whispering to me. What shall I spend it on?
I could buy a kite, or a coffee,
or a pair of shoes. I could spend it all
on a book, or a poem, or a fragment
of something half written,
tossed away on the wind. I could take it out
and polish it in the sunlight,
roll it across a sanded floor,
send it spinning into a wave
crashing onto a shingle shore.
I could take a ride on a bus
to the end of the line,
or buy an apple and biting it
learn what good is, and what’s evil,
I could hold my hand out
to a cunning magpie,
offer my silver as a gift,
sacrifice it to an ancient goddess,
bury it beneath a hawthorn tree,
or I could hide it underneath my pillow,
feel the dull thickness of…

WHY SHAHEEN BAGHS HAPPEN

By Neel Anil Panicker

“Mamma, I don’t want to go to school,” eleven year old Shazia shouted out, tears rolling down her cheeks.

Simmi, hearing her little one’s cries, rushed out of the kitchen.

“What is it, my baby? Why are so upset? Did anyone scold you? Say something?”

As the little one’s tears wailings showed no end of stopping, the concerned mother lifted her and sat her down on the bed.

“Now tell me, my dearest, ” she started, wiping away her third born’s tears with the edges of her kurti.

“Mamma, tell me are we Pakistanis?”

The question momentarily stumped Simmi.

Then, she calmed herself, and coolly replied, “No, we are Indians. Proud Indians at that. We…”

“Then, why do they all call me Pakistani, Mamma?”

Simmi, realising what she was up against, replied, “Now, my dear, tell me , do all your friends…